


Last Night

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Drunken Confessions, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 09:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: He could admit he sometimes got flirty with Richie when they were drunk or high. But it didn't actually mean anything.





	Last Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a Youtube video of a 1988 show at Club Soda in Vancouver. If you haven't seen it, basically J/R spend the whole time touching each other. By the end, they're ignoring the song and standing on stage whispering to each other. I suspect this is what happened next ...

"Hey."

Jon knew the voice, even through the thick fog enveloping his consciousness. He was acutely aware of the familiar calloused fingertips on his shoulder, shaking him and making his brain knock around in his skull.

But his eyelids were just so fucking heavy. Probably a defense mechanism to protect him from any glimpses of light, or drunken guitarists.

"Hrmph," he grouched, hoping Richie would get the message.

"Hey." This time said with a giggle.

_Fuuuck._

Giggling meant Richie was wide awake and not going anywhere. Jon tossed an arm over his forehead and slowly blinked one eye open. It seemed like a good compromise.

When he saw that Richie wasn't standing over him, but sitting on the edge of his bed, he was a little weirded out. That was new.

Jon coughed to clear the whiskey-tinged phlegm from his throat. "What?"

Richie's face was only half-illuminated by the bedside lamp, but the gleam in his eyes was clear.

"I'm confused," he replied, pushing his bottom lip out, as if to illustrate the concept of confusion.

"Yeah, obviously," Jon agreed. "Your room is across the hall."

Richie smiled coyly. "I know where my room is. But it's our last night in this house, so …"

"Yeah?" Jon prompted, not following his inebriated logic.

Richie did the lip thing again. "I'm confused about the bet."

"Bet?" Vaguely, he recalled saying something to Richie onstage. Something that made sense in his head at the time, but had come out jumbled.

He did remember poking Richie in the chest as he'd said it. He remembered that they'd touched each other a lot, the whole night. But that's what alcohol did to people.

Jon rubbed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You said, 'I'll bet you two dollars you're drunker than I am.'"

Jon sighed and tried to send Richie eye daggers. But he lacked the necessary visual focus.

"I was drunk," he said bluntly. "I was being stupid."

Richie smiled, in that same heavy-lidded, dopey way he'd smiled at Jon all night. "Hmm. I thought you were flirting with me."

Jon screwed up his face. _The fuck?_

"You're nuts," he declared. "Go to bed."

But Richie didn't budge. And despite his cool dismissal, Jon felt his heart rate rising. He couldn't remember _everything_ he'd said and done that night, so he had to wonder if he'd gone a step too far at some point.

Because, yeah, he could admit he sometimes got flirty with Richie when they were drunk or high. But it didn't actually mean anything. He just did it to be funny, or annoying. Richie rarely got outright angry, so sometimes it was fun to try to push him over the edge.

It was definitely not because of any real attraction. Richie was ugly as sin.

"You're ugly," Jon said, to prove it. "I'm gonna have nightmares about waking up to this."

Richie just giggled again.

_For Christ's sake._

"Really." Jon kicked at his butt. "Go away."

"Ow," Richie objected, still refusing to give an inch.

Jon found himself growing agitated, but not so much from anger. There was a heat building in his belly, a charge across his skin. It was a lot more like arousal.

_Hell no._

This time, he used both feet to shove at Richie's hip and succeeded in toppling him. But the giggling only intensified when he landed in a heap on the carpet.

After a brief recovery, Richie rolled to his shins, folded his hands on the edge of the bed, and rested his chin there.

"See?" he said. "You keep touching me."

Jon sat up a little. "Dude. You actually look like a crazy person right now … And I guess I win the bet, by the way."

Richie looked up in mock thoughtfulness. "That's what I'm confused about. How do we prove who's drunker?"

"Again. I think you've accomplished that."

Richie made a doubtful sound. "You're the one who was just unconscious. I could pass that stand-on-one-leg test if I had to."

He pushed to his feet, like he was going to demonstrate, but then staggered -- detracting considerably from his argument.

Jon snorted. "Please. If I were a cop, I'd arrest you."

Richie plopped onto the bed, near Jon's feet, and leveled him with a stare. "Why, Jonny. Sounds like you wanna see me in handcuffs."

Jon felt his stomach drop out, and based on Richie's self-satisfied expression, his face was showing it. If not for the blanket, his boxers might have betrayed him, too.

"OK, seriously," he said, ignoring the way his voice cracked. "You are beyond wasted. Go sleep it off."

Richie shook his head, a sly grin forming. "I'm not tired."

And then he was crawling up the bed, and for a moment Jon honestly wondered if he was hallucinating. Maybe he was that drunk. But that would mean he was fantasizing about this -- which might actually be worse.

"Jesus Christ, Rich," he breathed, pulling the blanket up to his chest like it was a shield.

He knew he should move, or do something to bring this insanity to an end. But he was too consumed by the feeling of his heart pounding into his chest wall, burning a line down to his cock. He was too mesmerized by the hunger in those dark eyes moving toward him.

Richie straddled him, staying on his knees and forearms so there was no body contact, hovering his face just above Jon's.

The scent of vodka on his breath was still so strong, Jon felt a little dizzy. Or maybe it wasn't the vodka.

"Remember how we kept getting this close?" Richie whispered.

Without thinking, Jon darted his tongue out to lick his lips.

Richie smiled. "And then I almost kissed you."

Jon felt his eyes widen. "You …" He flinched as Richie brushed some hair away from his face.

"I put my head on your shoulder, and your lips were right there." Richie gave him a knowing look. "You pulled back at the last second -- like you always do."

"I don't …" Jon began to argue, but then lost the thread. They weren't even touching, but there was a tingle in his lips, spreading warmth through his checks and down into his chest.

It was incredibly distracting.

And then there was Richie, still smiling in that maddening way. "I was this close to you," he murmured. "You knew I was gonna kiss you. Right there, in front of all those drunk Canadians."

Jon lifted both hands but didn't know what to do with them. He felt like he could either strangle Richie or pull him down to crash their bodies together. Either one.

"You're crazy," he finally said, lamely.

"Then push me off." It was a challenge, but Richie said it offhandedly, like it was a choice between pizza or burgers. "You know you can."

Yeah, he knew. But he simply kept babbling.

"I should've cut you off at the bar. I didn't know you were getting this bad."

The smile widened. "Just push me off. Like you did before."

Jon growled in frustration. "Why should I? You should just get off."

He immediately cringed at the word choice, and Richie chuckled. "Gladly. If that's what you want."

Jon froze, trying to wrap his mind around his own inaction. He should've punched Richie in the jaw by now.

Instead, his gaze fell to those lips. Those big ugly lips in that ugly face. They pissed him off so much he wanted to bite them.

"Or," Richie said softly, "you could back off at the last second. Again."

He leaned down and hesitated for just a breath before brushing his lips against Jon's -- a barely-there contact that was enough to send a spark down Jon's spine.

_Sonuvabitch._

He threw the blanket aside and yanked Richie down on top of him.

But it was just because the bastard had practically dared him -- and he wanted to remind him who he was dealing with. If he gasped when that denim-covered cock rubbed against his, it was only because he'd never experienced the sensation before. And if he was allowing that beautifully slick tongue to glide over his own, it was just to shut Richie up.

That's all.

As the kiss deepened, he felt fingers thread into his hair, massaging his scalp -- an unexpectedly gentle gesture from the kinky drunk of mere moments ago. And Jon found he couldn't resist bringing his fingertips to Richie's back, tracing the warm skin exposed by the flimsy tank top.

He'd touched that skin before -- who knew how many times just that night. But not like this, not taking his time to actually feel. And it sent a shudder through him.

Richie suddenly broke for air, lifting up a bit to smile down at him.

"You didn't back off."

Again, Jon's eyes automatically went to his lips, wet and swollen now. "Nope," he agreed, before dragging the smug bitch back down.

Richie made a sound in his throat that could've been surprise, or protest, or lust. He couldn't be sure. He just knew Richie's warm breath was starting to fill his lungs, and it was completely insane and absolutely perfect.

By degrees, he let his remaining resistance melt, in favor of running his palms over all the overheated skin he could reach. In favor of arching his neck so those lips could nip an unhindered trail to his collarbone. And when Richie pushed his shirt up, Jon didn't hesitate to tug it over his head and toss it into oblivion.

Because if Richie wanted to play some kind of game, he'd match him. He'd fucking beat him. Any time, any --

He hissed, partly in surprise, as that tongue circled one of his nipples.

Richie hummed softly as he latched on and sucked, and Jon couldn't help grabbing a handful of his hair. Couldn't help bucking his hips, or pushing his head back into the pillow.

Couldn't help tightening his grip and unsubtly guiding the attention to his other hardening nub. He swore he felt Richie smile before he followed orders.

But whatever. He could let Richie's ego inflate if it benefitted both of them.

Jon heard himself moaning as that tongue moved over him, sending electrical pulses through his skin -- all driving toward one destination deep in his pelvis. He was sure that by now, Richie could feel him responding through the thin layer of cotton.

And it made him feel self-conscious -- bizarrely so, since a _response_ was obviously the goal. Almost immediately, though, he understood the problem. Richie was still fully clothed -- by Richie standards -- and Jon couldn't tolerate the imbalance.

He began to pull at the thin straps of that ridiculous tank, but Richie refused to yield any space between them.

"Lift up," Jon rasped, to no avail. Grunting, he gave another couple impatient tugs until he heard the sound of cheap fabric ripping.

He instantly winced in embarrassment. His cock, however, was not ashamed at all -- a point Richie obviously noticed. He finally pulled off and looked up at him, in some mix of shock and amusement.

"Jeez, Jonny."

"Oh, shut up," Jon snapped. "I'll buy you a real shirt."

Richie just smiled, and Jon felt a ludicrous flutter in his belly. He kind of hated the bastard, but also wanted the rest of his clothes off.

Richie sat up, one half of his shirt hanging sadly. "Allow me," he said, holding up his hands.

Jon tried to feign indifference as Richie peeled the shirt off and set to work on his jeans.

"You have thirty-seven of them anyway," he griped, looking at the blanket. "It's like touring with Diana Ross."

Richie made no reply. He seemed to be concentrating all his efforts on not falling over as he undressed, despite the fact he was sitting. Jon smiled wanly, feeling a little better.

That, however, lasted about two seconds -- before he realized that his best friend was now nearly naked and climbing on top of him again. Then an even more disturbing realization sunk in: Richie was so drunk he could barely get his jeans over his own ankles.

_Shit._

"Wait, wait, wait." Jon put his palms on Richie's chest as he was leaning in for a kiss.

That earned him a whine. "What now?"

"Remember the bet?"

Richie just gaped at him.

"You're definitely drunker than I am," Jon said.

Richie blinked. "And you want the two dollars?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "My point is, you're trashed."

"So?"

"So your judgment is shit. I can't …" He left it at that, because he couldn't even say the words _take advantage of you._

Richie shook his head vehemently. "No, no. I know what I'm doing -- Really."

Jon kept his hands planted where they were. "Unh-uh. The only reason you even came in here is, you're out-of-your-mind drunk."

"Ugh." Richie rolled off of him and onto his back. "That's not why, Jonny."

Jon side-eyed him but said nothing.

Richie sighed. "I mean, yeah, the alcohol … lowers my inhibitions. But I know what I'm doing."

Jon set his jaw. "I can't …" Again, he let the thought just hang there.

Richie closed his eyes. "This isn't just some … I've thought about this a lot, OK?"

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, like he was expecting a smack or something. But Jon could only stare.

Sure, there'd been times he suspected there was more behind Richie's flirting. He still wasn't prepared to hear it admitted like that.

"A lot?" he echoed, wanting to make sure he understood.

Richie just nodded.

"OK," Jon said simply, because he had nothing else.

Richie refused to look at him. "And now it's our last night here, so …"

Jon waited, but he didn't continue. "What?" he prodded.

Richie finally opened his eyes but gazed down, to where their hands were almost touching. "I've just … felt closer to you here."

Jon sensed a little jolt in his chest, like the words were bringing something to the surface. Because if he were honest, he'd felt that way a few times, too.

It made sense. They were holed up together, working together, creating together. And even though the other guys were there, he and Richie were more intensely invested. More volatile with each other. More dependent on each other. More comfortable with each other. Just … more.

"You …" Jon began, not sure where he was going. "Well, you've been stuck with me a lot."

Richie glanced at him. "Yeah. But mostly, I've liked it. Except when the control-freak thing goes too far."

Jon wanted to protest, but bit his tongue.

"So, I dunno." Richie shrugged. "Tonight I felt like ... like I should finally do something, y'know?"

He looked up and his eyes were shiny -- though maybe it was just the dim lighting, Jon thought. Even so, he found himself cupping Richie's face and leaning over to kiss him on the lips. Just to show him he hadn't done anything wrong.

Not that Jon was convinced any of this was OK. He was pretty sure it could be disastrous. But he wanted it anyway.

"I still think you're drunker than I am," he murmured when they parted.

"If you say so," Richie agreed, rolling over to resume what they'd started.

Once again, Jon felt any reservations falling away as Richie's mouth moved down his body. He didn't even try to stifle his moans as his waistband was tugged down and excruciating light kisses landed on his hip bones. And when Richie exhaled hotly over his erection, he shamelessly pressed up in invitation.

"God, Rich. Please."

He couldn't be bothered to worry about the fact that he was begging. No one was around to hear it.

His whole body was trembling by the time Richie slipped the boxers down and brought a sure hand to the base of his cock. And then that tongue was swirling around his tip --

_Holyfuckingshit._

Jon grabbed the sheets and bucked his hips reflexively, because Christ, he wasn't expecting that. He figured he'd get a friendly hand from his best bud. Not _that._

Richie was clearly unfazed by almost having his eye poked out, because he got right back in the game. And Jon could only take gulps of air as he was engulfed in a glorious warmth. Could only arch his back into the obscene suction.

When he actually dared to look down, the sight of that dark head moving up and down on him was so intoxicating, he had to close his eyes. He found, though, the blackness only stoked the white-hot heat spreading across his belly.

And he realized, suddenly, he didn't want it to go this way.

His eyes flew open and he grabbed at Richie's shoulders, ineffectively, before latching onto his hair.

"Off."

Richie made a sound that rippled through his cock, and Jon groaned as he pulled harder on the hair in his hand.

"Get up here," he growled, dimly aware of how desperate he sounded.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing. He just knew he didn't want to come with Richie servicing him like a groupie. He wanted them to be face to face.

Richie, finally getting the telegraph, pulled off and scrambled up the bed. Jon promptly shoved him onto his back and climbed on, just going with instinct rather than thought -- because sometimes he could do that.

As he lined up their cocks, he drank in the way Richie's chest heaved. The way he tossed his head to the side and bit his lip as they began to rock against each other. He knew, immediately, he'd made the right call.

Jon hovered his lips over Richie's cheek, bathing it with hot breaths, almost a mirror image of before. Almost a reflection of what they did on so many nights -- sharing a mike, exchanging the same charged air, each other's heat, each other's scent.

Almost.

Except in this case, Richie's hands clamped onto his ass, pulling him down for more friction.

"Oh, fuck," Jon panted, letting his head fall to the pillow beside Richie's.

He tried to catch some breath there, but found it impossible. The sounds of those little whimpers and breathless half-words at his ear were driving an urge he didn't quite understand. But he decided to go with it.

It was their last night here.

He kissed his way to the muscle where Richie's neck met his shoulder, then gently bit down -- tasting the salty tang of sweat and alcohol and stale smoke. It probably should've been disgusting. But instead it triggered a pull in the pit of his belly, a thrill that was intensified when Richie gasped and then openly groaned.

Jon used his tongue to lave the mistreated skin, and to covertly get another taste. To his surprise, he felt and heard Richie sigh, in something like contentment.

He wasn't sure why he'd felt compelled to bite. He would never do that to a girl, unless she asked him to. But taste in hair products aside, Richie was definitely not a girl. That reminder made him thrust a little harder.

And then he was just riding on the sounds filling the air -- their blended voices, the creaking bed, the rhythm of the headboard striking the wall.

There was a moment of stark reality, where he paused to pray Dave wasn't home, or was at least unconscious.

But even that passed as those familiar internal waves of pleasure took over. When he knew that blessed release was coming, and he wanted it so bad, but didn't want it to end.

And Jesus fucking Christ, he loved Canada.

He felt Richie coming first. And it was the sound that followed -- that drawn out, unguarded moan -- that did Jon in.

For a while after, he just lay on top of Richie, too overwhelmed to think about moving, or speaking, or living. But at some point, he felt a hand rubbing his arm.

"Jonny? You're getting heavy."

_Oh._

He flipped onto his back, and Richie immediately curled into his side. It was close to snuggling, Jon thought, but not quite. So he let it be.

Slowly, their labored breathing returned to normal, and the silence started to hang heavily in the thick air. Jon felt like he had to say something.

He reached to push some sweat-dampened hair off of Richie's forehead.

"I was lying when I called you ugly," he admitted in a whisper. He leaned in closer then, lips skimming the shell of Richie's ear. "You're hideous."

Richie snorted. "OK. Thanks for getting naked with me anyway."

Jon smiled and flopped onto his back again. "Anytime."

The words slipped out before he could think about the implication. But once he'd said them, he found he wasn't exactly opposed to the notion.

Richie looked at him, a bit startled. "Um … Great."

They lay quietly for another minute, before Richie broke the silence this time.

"So … Should I go back to my room?"

Jon studied a spot on the ceiling. Somehow the question seemed more monumental than anything they'd just done.

"Yeah," he finally replied. Then he casually turned onto his side and tossed an arm over Richie's chest. "In a while. I don't want Dave to see you creeping outta here or something."

Richie tentatively put a hand on his arm. "Right. Good call."

Jon closed his eyes. His heart was still thumping, and he was half-convinced they'd both gone off the deep end. But for now he was OK with that.

Richie gave his arm a squeeze. "Jonny?"

"Huh?"

"Who gets the two dollars?"

Jon opened his eyes and exhaled a little laugh. "Let's say you, cowboy. I'll leave it on the nightstand."

Richie smiled at him. "I knew I'd win," he said softly.

"Yeah," Jon agreed, hanging on a little tighter. "Me, too."

END


End file.
